


les irresistibles

by lepidopteran



Series: May 1968 AU [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Multi, Other, Voice Kink, de-hierarchicalization of workers' syndicates, mai 1968 au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:56:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepidopteran/pseuds/lepidopteran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras blows Courfeyrac while they listen to Combeferre and Grantaire discuss student/worker solidarity on the radio. That's it. That's the fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	les irresistibles

**Author's Note:**

> May 11th, 1968. The afternoon after the riot on the rue Gay-Lussac.

“ _Apollo must have something against the student movement – it looks like we've been cursed by the sun god. That's right, we've got a heatwave here in the city of light, mes amis. And that's the weather for you: sweat soaked shirts for the next three months. So grab a cold beer and relax with a little music. This is R, and you're listening to_ _Europe n°1 – we'll be back in a few with the gritty politics_.”  
  
His voice fades out, and My Year is a Day crackles across Courfeyrac's little transistor radio. Enjolras scoffs and reaches to turn the knob, but lightening-quick, Courfeyrac grabs his wrist and pins it to the table.  
  
“No you don't,” he warns. “If you think I can organize a general strike on two hours of sleep without a little bit of mindless commercial pop –”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Enjolras tries to shake his wrist free, but Courfeyrac doesn't relax his strong grip.  
  
It really is a heatwave. His sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, his tie is loosened, and he ditched his jacket some time ago. The toes of his sneakers tap under the table in time to the beat, and there's a legal pad perched in his lap. With his free hand, he hovers the tip of a pencil along the lines, mouthing out words to himself. Enjolras cranes over to look. “Are you finished yet?”  
  
“Jesus, give me a minute,” says Courfeyrac. “Patience. You asked me to look it over.”  
  
The song ends, and Enjolras hears the thunk of a mic turning on, then Grantaire's voice. “ _That was fun. Back to business – I've got a special guest, a student rep from the Sorbonne, here to shed a little light on Cohn-Bendit's call for a general strike. Take it away, Big C_.” Combeferre's voice comes in, steady and soft.  
  
Courfeyrac scribbles something in a margin, and tosses the legal pad over to Enjolras. “It's beautiful rhetoric, of course. A little incendiary. Combeferre won't like it.”  
  
Enjolras reaches out for his pen, but finds himself still restrained. Courfeyrac's broad hand is casually curled, but unyielding, around Enjolras' fine-boned wrist.  
  
“Let me go –”  
  
“I don't think so.”  
  
“I've got work to do, Courfeyrac,” he protests. “There's no time to lose. I need to fix this up, type it, print and distribute, meet with –”

His laundry list is cut short by Courfeyrac's other hand, cupped over his mouth. “R and Combeferre are broadcasting,” Courfeyrac says. “Bahorel has a meeting with the workers he met last night. Jehan and Bossuet are at Nanterre. Joly is doing his damnedest to smooth the ruffled feathers of the _P_ _arti communiste_. And you, Enjolras, can take a moment and rest – _ouch!_ ”

Courfeyrac withdraws his hand, shaking it and hissing at the bitemark across the inside of his knuckles. Enjolras smirks and licks his teeth. “You don't tell me what to do.”

“Fucking hell, Enjolras, I know – If you think I didn't know – I know.” He shifts his chair closer. His left hand is still looped around Enjolras' wrist on the table between them, but his grip is slack, and Enjolras makes no third attempt to pull away. He just looks up at Courfeyrac, heavy-lidded from lack of sleep, his mouth a little reddened where Courfeyrac's hand had pressed over it.  
  
“I don't tell you what to do, but I help you,” Courfeyrac continues. “You know I always want to help you in whatever way I can. And right now, well – I have to notice that this is the most relaxed I've seen you since the riot.” He tugs at the knot of his tie; the long muscle of his neck shimmers with sweat. “Look, all I'm trying to say is – if you want to bite me again, I'm here.”

They've done this before, and more than once. But after each time, Enjolras withdraws, ties his hair back, straightens himself up – composed, severe – and they never speak of it. Courfeyrac can hardly be blamed for believing that each time is the last.

So it still comes as a surprise when Enjolras surges forward, legs braced on either side of Courfeyrac's chair. Enjolras doesn't _do_ this, so when he does this, he does it with all the energy and force he gives to everything else. In ten seconds his teeth are scraping the muscle between Courfeyrac's neck and shoulder, in twenty seconds his free hand is tangled in Courfeyrac's hair, in thirty his hips are pressed flush against Courfeyrac.  
  
Courfeyrac releases his grip on Enjolras' wrist at last, at first provoking a little gasp of frustration, but then his hands are at the hem of Enjolras' t-shirt and he's pulling it up and off. His mouth finds the flat plane of Enjolras' sternum where his heart beats doubletime. When Courfeyrac rolls his tongue across a flushed nipple, Enjolras moans into Courfeyrac's neck and fumbles with the buttons of his shirt.

Combeferre is saying “ – _but last night was really about the workers, it was about these new connections we're making with the unions_ – ”

Panting, Courfeyrac detaches his mouth from Enjolras' chest and inclines his head to the radio. “Should I turn that off?”  
  
“ _There was talk last night of total revolution, would you say that's possible in the city's current climate?_ ” says Grantaire. “ _And I mean the political climate as well as this heatwave, which I understand has already set back the protests at Nanterre._ ”  
  
“ _Certainly_ ,” Combeferre begins, and Courfeyrac can practically see him, legs crossed primly in pressed slacks and a pen tucked behind one ear. He groans when Enjolras presses his hips down, and their eyes meet.  
  
“No,” says Enjolras. “Leave it on.”  
  
With a little sigh Courfeyrac's head falls to his friend's shoulder. Enjolras' fingers are dancing up and down the warm tan muscles under him. He brings Courfeyrac's hands to rest on the long vee of his hips.  
“ _Aspects of the student/worker struggle have been in motion since long before March 22_ _nd_ _,_ ” says Combeferre. “ _At this very moment, my comrades are hard at work to ensure that we don't lose this precious solidarity and momentum._ ”  
  
Courfeyrac's hand wanders to palm at Enjolras through his jeans, but Enjolras swats the hand away and unfolds himself catlike from Courfeyrac's lap. He reaches up and tugs the elastic out of his ponytail. Thick curls fall around his shoulders; a flush spreads from his cheekbones to his chest.  
  
Courfeyrac has to close his eyes and bite his lip and promise himself that he will not ravish Enjolras. Because Enjolras is not for ravishing – Enjolras is for breaking up paving stones in the Latin Quarter, and editing communiques on two hours of sleep, and knowing that someone will be there to keep your secrets until you both go down fighting.

Enjolras sinks to his knees and pulls Courfeyrac's belt free with a snap.  
  
“ _Let's talk about those union connections. Are you at all worried that established trade unions might be more willing to compromise for the first offer the state extends?_ ” says Grantaire.  
  
“Alright?” says Enjolras, the flat of his palm pressed against Courfeyrac's inner thigh, where a pulse jumps under his slacks.  
  
“God, yes, Enjolras – ” the rest of his reply is caught in a moan when Enjolras' fingers dart over the buttons and he dips his clever fingers under Courfeyrac's waistband. He presses a soft kiss to the base of Courfeyrac's cock, and Courfeyrac sinks his hands into blond curls.  
  
Enjolras as a lover – when Courfeyrac can bring himself to think of his friend in those terms – is sloppy, too fast, as impestuous as he is in any other capacity. He nips and sucks at the soft skin of Courfeyrac's thigh, laves his tongue up Courfeyrac's cock and down again, grips Courfeyrac's hip hard enough to bruise and presses him back into the chair.  
  
And Courfeyrac loves every minute of it, because this is how he knows it's really Enjolras. The mouth around the head of his cock is the same mouth that spits impassioned speeches at the occupied Sorbonne. The hands digging into his hips are the same hands that wave banners and throw bricks, and the flash of gold hair in his hands is the same light Courfeyrac knows he'll follow to the very end.  
  
“ _That's the value of collaborating directly with workers, rather than trying to work with the large trade unions,_ ” says Combeferre. “ _We're hearing from workers who are disillusioned with the existing heirarchically-structured unions, and interested in something more radical._ ”  
  
“God, his voice is beautiful, isn't it?” says Courfeyrac. His back is bowed, abdominal muscles tight, and a shiver runs across his shoulders. Warmth shoots down his spine.  
  
Enjolras hums in agreement, and that's it for Courfeyrac. He gasps out a warning, and Enjolras rises, taking Courfeyrac in hand and pressing his face to the curve of his neck. Courfeyrac bites down hard, and sees sparks.  
  
Enjolras mumbles something unintelligible against Courfeyrac's hair, and bucks against his hand. Courfeyrac runs a thumb along the thigh of Enjolras' jeans. This is the closest he has ever come to touching the man, but the sheen of sweat on Enjolras' chest and the way he steadies himself with a hand braced on the table – it's enough. It's more than Courfeyrac would ever ask.  
  
Enjolras withdraws. Silently, he pulls on his shirt, recovers the elastic and pulls his hair back. By the time Courfeyrac's breathing evens out, Enjolras has his feet up on the table, and he's scribbling revisions on the legal pad.  
  
“ _Hello to all of you lovers and fighters tuning in,_ ” says Grantaire. “ _This is R, and you're listening to Europe n°1._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> my year in a day - les irresistibles http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6yvDVnVPZhU
> 
> Europe n°1 (now Europe 1) was originally a pirate radio station which was partially purchased by the state in 1959. it managed to dodge government sanctions in may '68, so it was one of the only stations reporting on the student movement. it was nicknamed "barricade radio."
> 
> thanks for the kudos and comments on the previous installments! I love writing in this 'verse waaay too much. xoxoxoxo


End file.
